


Promise Me

by jonsastan (lilzipop)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and the Starks are cousins but that's okay because it's Westeros and they cool with that, Jon is referred to as Jaehaerys for a bit, Sharing a Bed, more tags to come probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-01-05 04:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilzipop/pseuds/jonsastan
Summary: Sansa Stark always knew she would be a Princess. She knew she would be married to a Prince, she would live where he demanded, she would provide him with children, she would honour him and his house.She had always loved stories of gallant princes rescuing fair maidens, but in the stories love always triumphed, love was always there, love came first. But in real life honour and duty came first.The lone wolf dies but the pack survivesHer father had told her this when she had asked him why she had to marry Prince Jaehaerys. It took her awhile to understand.Her Aunt and King Rhaegar had broken the realm with their love, now Sansa’s duty would unite it. At least for awhile.





	1. Chapter 1

“The North will never yield, will never submit, not completely to the will of the Dragon.” Rhaegar thumped a fist against the desk.  “The North remembers.” Lyanna intoned. 

 

“They will if the daughter of the North is a queen.” He replied. 

 

“I cannot heal the realm, my love.” Lyanna replied. “The North will be subdued while Ned is Warden, but the future is not secure.” At that moment, Lyanna’s future squealed and cried and she began to rock her arms, before the babe settled down. Rhaegar turned from the window and looked at his son, Lyanna’s son, the boy born from the love that almost destroyed the realm. 

 

“You may not be able to heal the realm,” Rhaegar walked over and sat on the bed next to his wife. He reached a hand out and stroked the head of dark hair the was showing on his babe’s head. “But Jaehaerys might.” There as a pause. “You’re brother awaits without. He is demanding to see you, to make sure you are truly happy and here of your own will. I think, perhaps you should offer a betrothal. Between Jaehaerys and Stark’s first born daughter.” 

 

Lyanna looked at her husband. He was handsome even with the scar from his temple to his jaw, a gift from Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar was a true Targaryen with his silver-gold hair and violet eyes, but his eyes had a kindness, a softness that had been tempered, hidden by the life he was born into. She could not let that kindness disappear. His father had lost kindness, had lost compassion and Rhaegar had been forced to kill him. Lyanna would not allow her husband to become his father and place his son’s in the unenviable position Rhaegar was in. 

 

“I will suggest it to Ned.” Lyanna agreed. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It snowed on Sansa Stark’s wedding day. In the North that was considered lucky, a blessing from the gods even now, but Sansa thought the weather was mirroring her heart. 

 

She’d smiled at Robb, to ease his guilt, and accepted the flowers from Arya with grace, but as she walked toward the Heart Tree of Winterfell to be cloaked by her husband she wished she was free. That wish made her feel guilty. She knew this was coming her whole life. She knew she would marry, would leave Winterfell and her family, but a small part of her had hoped that maybe, somehow, she’d be allowed to stay with her family, in her home. That she would see her nieces and nephews as they were born, watch as Arya rejected suitor after suitor, help Bran learn how to dance and Rickon learn his letters, help her parents as they grew old.But no, she would not know that life. She was to be married to the second son of Targaryen’s , her cousin. Their union would further unite the realms, bring the North into the fold of the South. 

 

She stopped by the Heart Tree and looked at her uncle. He was not of the Old Gods, but custom dictated he would preside over the ceremony. He was avTargaryen, his hair a silver gold, his eyes a striking purple, his face a mask of no emotion. 

 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” His voice was deep, but carried for all to hear. 

 

“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true born and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Her father’s voice was more gentle, more kind, but just as commanding. 

 

Sansa heard her husband’s voice for the first time then. 

 

“Jaehaerys, of House Targaryen, heir to Dragonstone. Who gives her?” His voice had a familiar Northern lilt that was both shocking and comforting. Her father spoke again. 

 

“Eddard, of House Stark, Warden of the North and her father.” Her father smiled at her before withdrawing and standing next to her mother, and Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. 

 

“Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”  All eyes turned to her and Sansa felt like her throat had closed, like she could not draw breath or make a single sound. Glancing next to her she saw the face of Jaehaerys Targaryen, a man not older than Robb who was in the same position she was. Who did not know the person he was bound to for life, who did not know if love or hate would grow, who did not know what the future held. And he offered her a soft, barely apparent smile. Sansa then spoke with a voice that did not quaver or shake. 

 

“I take this man.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He saw her in the Great Hall. She was seated on the dais and she looked every inch the queen she would never be. Her hair was flowing down her back, her eyes were shining and her dress hinted at curves beneath it. She was beautiful and she was his wife.

 

_ Whether she wanted to be or not. _

 

That had always bothered Jon. Just like his Targaryen name. It was complicated and set a standard that he would try and fail to live up to for the rest of his days. Just like Sansa and he would have to live up to a promise made in a small room, in small tower, far away in Dorne, many years ago. 

 

_ She is beautiful.  _ He thought. 

 

“Have you actually spoken to her?” His brother’s voice wafted to his ears and Jon almost smiled. Aegon liked to tease. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Saying ‘You look well my Lady’ and ‘I take you as my wife before the Seven’ does not count.” Aegon came and stood next to Jon, sipping a cup of wine. 

 

“They don’t believe in the Seven here.” Jon snapped, knowing he was rising to the bait just like his brother wanted. “I spoke to her.” Jon replied, hearing the defensive tone in his own voice. 

 

“I’m sure you did, Little Dragon, and enchanted her with your eloquence and poetic turn of phrase.”  

 

“Don’t call me that.” Jon scowled at his brother.

 

“You let Mother call you that.”

 

“Your mother does not use it as an insult.”

 

“And neither do I.” Jon almost rolled his eyes at his brother. “Don’t worry. You have the rest of your life to listen to her nag and drone on and on and on.”

 

“Aegon.” Jon hissed in annoyance.

 

“Come along, the Northern Lords await.” Aegon thumped Jon playfully on the back and made his way over to the dais. Jon followed.

 

He felt awkward sitting next to Sansa. He’d barely spoken two sentences together, met her for the first time yesterday, and now they were bound together before Gods and Men. 

 

“Are you finding the cold trying, Your Grace?” She asked, obviously grasping for something, anything to fill the silence. 

 

_ Gods even her voice is perfect _ .

 

“Not as bad as my brother and my sister, My Lady.” he replied. They looked at each other for a moment and Jon felt as if Sansa could see through his fine clothes and the stupid dragonglass circlet on his head, that she could see through his flesh and bones and into his very being. He turned away quickly. 

 

Hi cousin, Robb, was seated on his other side and Jon found it much easier to converse with him. They talked of training and swords and battle tactics. Robb had the same Tully colouring as his sister, but Robb’s eyes didn’t look at him like they could see his heart. 

 

During the meal Sansa’s hand brushed his as she reached for her water goblet and he reached for his wine. He jumped so much he knocked his wine goblet over, spilling wine all over the table. Sansa quickly begun to mop up the mess and when his father called to ask what the matter was she seamlessly replied.

 

“My own clumsiness, Your Grace. I knocked over poor Prince Jaehaerys’ wine and spilled it all over the table. He now has no wine and must be seated next to a clumsy oaf.” 

 

His father smiled at her sweet words.

 

“I do not think any man in the Seven Kingdoms could mind being seated next you.” His father said and Jon understood why Elia and Lyanna fell in love with him. He was smooth, and flirtatious, but his eyes spoke of kindness and truth. Sansa smiled sweetly at the King before she finished mopping up his mess and signalled for another goblet of wine to be brought to him.

 

“There’s no need.” He said. “I should not drink anymore tonight.” His voice sounded clipped.

 

“Oh.” She said and thanked the server before dismissing them. 

 

“Sorry. And thank you.” He said, looking at his plate, not her. 

 

“It’s nothing.” Her voice wasn’t warm anymore. 

 

“I prefer Jon.” He said, hearing his tone softening ever so slightly. 

 

“Pardon?” She asked, and Jon looked at her. She was facing him, her lips ever so slightly parted, her eyes trained on him with a coldness in them that had not been there before. 

 

“I prefer to be called Jon. Not Prince or Prince Jaehaerys.”

 

“Jon.” She said and he offered her a tentative smiled. “Would you do me the honour of calling me Sansa?” She asked.

 

_ She speaks with perfect courtesy when I can barely form a sentence. _

 

“Aye, Sansa. I should like that.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jon nerves seemed to grow as the night drew onward. He knew his uncle and his father had agreed a bedding ceremony was not needed. He remembered his uncle being rather firm on the matter, but Jon still knew what was expected of himself and Sansa. 

 

_ She asked you to call her Sansa, she can’t hate you.  _

 

He sipped his water. He would not be drunk tonight. He would not force anything, he would not demand, he’d sleep on the floor if it would make her comfortable. He was not going to act like some Lords when they married, groping and pushing at their wives without thinking. 

 

_ Sansa will never have cause to fear me. _ He promised himself. 

 

He noticed Sansa had, discreetly, begun to yawn about half an hour ago and not he could see the tiredness in her eyes. 

 

“Shall we retire My Lady?” He asked. 

 

Sansa was suddenly wide awake. She sat up straight and reached for her wine goblet. It was still her first one of the evening, she had only taken 4 sips from it. 

 

“Only if you wish, Your Grace.” He cursed himself. Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore Aegon making rather inappropriate gestures at him Jon spoke again.

 

“I am rather tired from the journey to Winterfell, and the stress of the day. If you wish to retire then I would gladly consent.” She smiled at him then and Jon felt his chest bloom with warmth. 

 

“I would like to retire.” Jon stood and offered her his hand, she placed her own delicately in the palm of his hand. 

 

_ Her skin is cold. _

 

Jon nodded to his father and the host of Lord and Ladies still celebrating although most of them were so in their cups to not notice. 

 

As they left the hall Jon noticed Ser Barristan Selmy and a Stark household guard follow them at a discreet distance. He went to turn and Sansa pulled him in the opposite direction.

 

“This way, Your Grace.” She offered a tentative smile and led him down the correct passage. 

 

“I was surprised by how warm Winterfell is.” He said as a way of breaking the silence. 

 

“There are natural hot springs all around Winterfell, the water is piped through the walls, heating the whole castle.” She paused and moved to a wall. “You can hear the water moving.” She motioned and he mimicked her, placing his ear against the warm stone. The sound of rushing water filled his ear and he couldn’t help but smile. 

 

“Genius.” He murmured. Sansa smiled at him and stood up straight. They resumed their journey to their quarters. 

 

“It is a Northern legend that Bran the Builder raised Winterfell before the Wall.” 

 

“You shall have to tell me all the legends of the North.” They both stopped as they reached their chamber doors. There was an awkward pause and Jon looked behind him to see Ser Barristan and the Stark guard has stopped a few feet away. Jon cleared his throat before opening the door for Sansa. She entered and spoke to someone to Jon’s astonishment. 

 

“Good evening Gilly.” The maid, a young woman, bobbed a curtsey to both Jon and Sansa before replying. 

 

“Good evening, My Lady. I have a tub and your things all ready in the dressing room.” 

 

“Thank you, Gilly. I’ll be a moment.” The maid bobbed another curtsey, as Sansa turned to Jon.

 

“You’re steward should be through that door there.” She pointed to a door behind him, she turned and walked toward the door Gilly had gone through, pausing at the threshold. 

 

“I’ll see you soon, My Prince.” She said before disappearing. 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa had bathed, unpinned and brushed her hair, and dressed in the nightgown she had spent a month making and a silk dressing gown her aunt Lysa had gifted her. Her nightgown was white and soft with Winter Roses embroidered around the neckline. It was more daring than her usual sleeping clothes but her mother had assured her that was okay. Only now, standing alone and staring at the door that would lead her to her shared chambers it did not feel okay.

 

She felt practically naked. Her collar bone was visible, her arms bare, the shape of her hips evident when she moved. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and screwed up her courage. 

 

_ You can hardly spend your wedding night in your dressing room! _

 

She opened the door and paused. She’s expected to see Jon standing in the room, or reclining in the bed or doing something, but the chambers were empty. She didn’t know what to do. She did not want to climb into bed, in fear that would taken for wantonness, but retreating into her dressing room felt like cowardice. She moved into the room and made her way to the small desk near the fireplace. The fire was warm and Sansa was tempted to sit on the soft fur rug that was laid before it. Instead she sat at the desk and waited. 

 

After a moment she noticed a small wooden box on the desk. It was made of Weirwood, pale and shiny with hints of red beneath the carving. The carving was of a single wolf and a single dragon. At first glance they looked to be battling, fighting to the death, but as Sansa looked closer she saw they looked as if they were dancing. Their limbs entwined, but their faces placid, almost happy. As she examined the box she noticed initials in the corner ‘S.S’  _ Sansa Stark _ .

 

“You found your wedding present.” She yelped and almost dropped the box at the sudden disruption to the silence. “I’m sorry!” Jon cried, moving toward her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“It’s fine, Your Grace.” She replied, her hand over her heart that she was sure had only just started beating again. “This is for me?” She asked.

 

“Yes, I had it commissioned before we left King’s Landing. I helped design the carving.” He responded rather shyly.

 

“It’s beautiful.” 

 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He asked. Sansa looked up and saw a kind of shy excitement in his eyes. 

 

She gently opened the lid and almost dropped the box again. Within lay a necklace, earrings, bracelet, ring, and circlet of sapphires entwined with diamonds and silver. Sansa gasped. 

 

“Oh, they’re beautiful.” She hesitantly reached a finger out and touched the central sapphire of the necklace that dropped down below the others. 

 

“They’re family jewels.” Jon replied. His voice was soft and had a hint of embarrassment to it. “They belonged to Queen Bertha, wife of-”

 

“King Aegon the Unlikely and Father of your namesake.” Sansa finished and looked up at him. “They’re beautiful. And I always liked the story of Prince Aegon and Bertha Blackwood.” She smiled at him and enjoyed the smiled he gifted back to her.

 

“I have a gift for you!” She placed the box carefully back on the best and made her way over to the large trunk at the end of the bed. She did not permit her thoughts to wander to the bed and what might be happening in the bed later, but focused on the present she had spent months working on for her future husband. She knew they would be doing a kind of tour of the Northern houses after their marriage and thought her gift would be practical and endear the Targaryen Prince to the Northern Lords. 

 

She pulled the large cloak from the trunk and shook it out slightly, allowing the fur collar to fluff up slightly. 

 

“It’s amazing.” Jon murmured and he came closer, feeling the wool between his fingers. 

 

“I modelled it after the true Northern style, like my Father’s but imprinted the Targaryen sigil across the chest.”

 

“You made this?” He asked and his voice held wonder. Sansa was unsure whether to be insulted or pleased, and decided to go with pleased. 

 

“I thought you would like it.” She looked at him and for the first time noticed what he wore. His formal clothing had been removed and he wore only a loose white undershirt and worn but comfortable looking britches. She flushed as she noticed the shape of his hips and the smattering of dark hair across his chest. 

 

“It’s amazing Sansa, truly amazing. I shall wear it tomorrow.” He took it from her and held it him, admiring the drape of the fabric as it fell.

 

Tomorrow the King and her father along with her brothers and Princes would ride out and execute a deserter from the Night’s Watch. It was a grim task the day after their wedding but duty must be done, and at least Jon would be warm. She felt herself beginning to yawn and tried to stifle it. 

 

She knew what was expected of her, of Jon tonight. Her mother had told her, she was prepared for her duty and the pain that it would entail, but she was nervous.

Jon carefully laid his new cloak on the desk and turned to Sansa. 

 

“This is a bit awkward My Lady.” Sansa almost smiled at the courtesy. Her mother had told her that courtesy was a lady’s armour, but it seemed to be a prince’s as well. “But I want you to know that I don’t plan on- that is, we shall not be- I won’t take any kind of liberty or marriage rites uninvited.” He did not look her in the eye as he said this. “I will not force myself upon you, or act in a way that would shame you.” 

 

“Oh.” Jon looked at her when this exclamation escaped her. His eyes were full and round. Beseeching her to understand, to know that he was not rejecting her or their future, but the expectation and the pain that the expectation would cause her. “Thank you, Jon.” She said.

 

She turned to the bed and pulled down the covers, before shucking her dressing gown and climbing in. Jon had not moved from his spot. She patted the bed next to her as if trying to lure a cat to sleep alongside her. 

 

“Are you sure, Sansa? I can sleep on the floor.” Sansa smiled at this. 

 

“You will be extremely uncomfortable if you do that and we shall have to get used to sharing a bed anyway.” She reasoned 

 

“Not tonight. We do not have to share a bed tonight.” He replied. 

 

“Sleep next to me.” She invited. “I’m used to Rickon, or Bran, or even Arya sleeping beside me and shall find it odd with no one there.” He walked over slowly, giving her time to reconsider, to change her mind about allowing a man she met a day ago to sleep in her bed, even if that man happened to be a crown prince of the realm and her husband. But she said nothing. Sansa merely, blow out the candle on her side table and snuggled down into the blankets and furs of the bed. 

 

Jon blew out his own candle and pulled the covers up to his chin. Sansa could see the outline of his face in the firelight. She closed her eyes and prayed she would not talk in her sleep like Arya said she did.

 

“Goodnight Jon.”

 

“Goodnight Sansa.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break between updates! I just want to clarify some things from my first chapter. I've aged up the characters a bit because (eventually) there will be some smut and I do not do underage smut. So Robb and Jon are 20, Sansa is 18, Arya is 16, Bran is 12, and Rickon is about 6 or 7, so this should account for Sansa's maturity, but I also think knowing she would be leaving not only her family home, but the entire North all her life would change her opinion of marriage. 
> 
> Also, I said Jon was the heir to Dragonstone and someone pointed out as the second son he'd be heir to Summerhall. I understand this, but Summerhall was also destroyed and not rebuilt whilst Aerys II was ruling and Rheager was said to be obsessed with the place, so in this universe, he made Dragonstone Jon's knowing that Aegon would become King, leaving Summerhall free for him to obsess over. Sorry again for the long break between chapters, I'm almost finished my uni degree and I have to finish some essays.

Jon awoke to something tickling his nose. He blindly brushed at it, but it seemed to float back and continue tickling. He opened his eyes and his world was red. It took him a moment to realise that Sansa’s hair had, somehow, managed to be thrown over his eyes and nose. 

 

He took a breath.

 

_ She smells like citrus and snow. _

 

Carefully, he brushed her hair off his face and glanced over at his wife.  _ His wife. _ Her hair had splayed out in her sleep, framing her face like a halo.

 

_ I get to see this every day for the rest of my days. _

 

He smiled at the thought and tried to get out of bed without waking Sansa, but he was unsuccessful. 

 

“Good morning.” She said, her voice coated in sleep and her northern accent ever so slightly present. 

 

“Morning.” He replied, standing and immediately shivering. He heard Sansa chuckled.

 

“I’ll stoke the fire.” Sansa rose and draped her dressing gown over herself before stoking the embers back into flame. Jon smiled his thanks and stood closer to the fire. He heard Sansa moving about, but only turned when he felt a fur rug draped over his shoulders. Sansa had draped him in the rug and moved back to the bed. She pulled all the covers off and stared at the white sheet for a moment. 

 

“Do you have a dagger?” She asked as casually as if asking how he’d slept. 

 

“What? Why?” He exclaimed moving to stand closer to her and the bed, but keeping the rug around his shoulders. 

 

“They’re expecting proof of my maidenhead.” He noticed a flush appear on her cheeks and felt a heat rise to his own face.

 

“Oh.” He avoided her eyes. “Yes, I have a dagger.” He fetched the blade and stood next to the bed for a moment, figuring out the best place to cut so he would not feel the wound when riding today, when he noticed Sansa’s hand held out toward him as if expecting the dagger. 

 

“No my Lady!” He cried.

 

“I would not have you bleed for me, my prince.” Her voice was gentle but firm

 

“I would not have  _ you _ bleed for  _ me _ .” 

 

“I am not riding out today and will not be pained by a mere cut.”

 

“Another mere cut will not be noticed on my person, Gilly will notice if you have injuries.” 

 

“Gilly will not see!” She snapped. “It’s stupid for you to be in pain and uncomfortable whilst you ride while I can sit and sew with my mother and aunt and feeling minimal pain.” Steel grey eyes met ice blue eyes and neither seemed to yield. “Don’t be stupid.” She arched an eyebrow at him before adding “Your Grace.”

 

There was a heavy silence. Finally Jon sighed and handed his dagger, hilt first, to Sansa.

 

“Thank you.” She sat on the bed and tugged her nightgown up around her thighs. Jon turned away hastily, unsure what to do. He stood in silence for a moment before he heard Sansa hiss in pain.

 

“Sansa.” he muttered feeling useless and idiotic. 

 

“Can you hand me those rags please?” Jon grabbed the pile of rags on the dresser and turned to Sansa. She sat in the middle of the bed, a thin red line maring the creamy white flesh of her thigh. She’d created a small pool of blood in the middle of he bed. Jon handed her the rag and she used one to mop up extra blood and apply pressure. When her cut stopped bleeding, she chucked that rag to the floor and folded the other to try and secure around her wound. 

 

“Let me.” Jon offered taking the rag and kneeling next to the bed. Sansa shuffled closer and Jon looked at her for consent, before lifting her foot to rest on his knee allowing him to wind the rag around her thigh. 

 

“Tell me if it’s too tight.” He murmured, tying off the rag. 

 

“It’s fine.” He looked up and saw Sansa smiling. “My mother used to say that when she would bandage our scrapes.” 

 

Jon chuckled. “My mother would always kiss our injuries better.” Jon regretted the words as soon as they escaped his lips. They both looked at each other. 

 

_ Does she want me to kiss it better? _

 

Jon was startled by the thought that he would like to kiss Lady Sansa there. After a moment, Jon cleared his throat and placed Sansa’s foot back on the ground. 

 

“Myself more often than Aegon, and Rhaenys more often than Aegon or I.” He said, for something to say as he moved toward the warmth of the fire. 

 

“Did Queen Elia-” Sansa began, before shaking her head. “Nevermind.” 

 

“Elia would always tell us platitudes about how failure made you better, and every hurt is a lesson. Mother would always kiss us better and offer cakes.” Jon smiled at the memory. “Elia was the one we went to to escape lessons. She would send the Maester away and read us history books or poetry.”

 

Sansa rose and sat on the rug next to the fire. 

 

“Why did you have more scrapes and bruises than Aegon? Is he a better swordsman?” She asked. Jon paused, hearing Aegon’s voice “  _ ou can bore her to death with tales of the training yard _ ”. But Sansa’s face didn’t seem to be the mask of forced interest the ladies of King’s Landing wore. Her eyes shone with curiosity, her lips parted  in a gentle smile. 

 

“Actually,” Jon sank to the rug, sitting opposite Sansa. “Aegon is much worse with a sword, or a war hammer, or a mace.” Sansa chuckled. “He takes after Father, with poetry and music.” 

 

“And you take after the Starks, being a warrior.” She smiled

 

“I suppose. Robb seems to think he could beat me in the training yard.” 

 

“Oh, you could beat him.” Sansa reassured, drawing her knees to her chest. 

 

“No sense of family loyalty, my Lady?” He teased, feeling comfortable, feeling safe. 

 

“In battle Robb would win, but in the training yard…” He chuckled as she teased him back. “He wouldn’t want to bruise my new husband’s pretty face.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It seemed like minutes, but was in fact a couple of hour later when Gilly knocked quietly on the door. She entered accompanied by a young man Sansa thought to be Jon’s steward, each bearing trays of food. 

 

“Would you like me to choose your dress for the day, my Lady?” Gilly asked, after placing the breakfast tray on the dresser. She moved about the room, collecting the bloody rag and stripping the bloody sheet from the bed with a nonchalance that Sansa was grateful for. 

 

“Thank you Gilly. Something comfortable, maybe the deep blue dress with the wolves across the hem?” 

 

“Very good, my Lady. Your bath shall be ready soon.” Gilly curtseyed and left, Jon’s young steward following after a hushed conversation with Jon. Sansa made her way to the breakfast tray and smiled. Gilly had brought her favourite foods, strawberries, blueberries, some of the the lovely lemon and orange jam with toast, still warm. Taking a bite of a strawberry, Sansa suppressed a groan. She loved the glass gardens of Winterfell, and how it was always summer there. 

 

“Strawberries?” Jon muttered in surprise as he moved his tray to the rug in front of the fire. Sansa spread some jam across her toast and brought it and the bowl of fruit with her, as she resumed her place opposite him. 

 

“They’re grown in the glass gardens. I can show you later if you like?” She offered. 

 

“I should like that.” He bit into his own strawberry and Sansa could not help but watch as a bead of juice escaped his lips and disappeared into the growth of his beard. 

 

_ I wonder what his lips taste like. _

 

She blushed at the thought and took a bite of her toast. 

 

“Are there any other places around Winterfell you should like to see before we depart?” She asked, trying to distract her suddenly wanton thoughts. 

 

“Mother always reminisces about the Godswood. The one in Kings Landing doesn’t have a weirwood, and Mother says you can feel the Old Gods in Winterfell’s Godswood.” 

 

Sansa nodded. It was her Father’s retreat, his safe and sacred place. She visited it, and felt a presence that she did not feel visiting her Mother’s sept. 

 

“And the crypts.” Jon said quietly. “I should like to visit my Grandfather and Uncle. Pay respect to my ancestors.” 

 

“We can visit this afternoon.” Sansa offered a small, comforting smile. Jon smiled back before changing the topic to something less sorrowful, less dangerous. 

 

“What is this jam made of? It’s really good.” 

 

“Lemons and oranges. It’s my favourite.” Sansa took another bite. “I used to eat it out of the jar with a spoon when I could steal it.” 

 

“Lady Sansa Stark stealing from the kitchens?” Jon asked and eyebrow raised in disbelief. She flushed, wondering if she was being too open, too vulnerable. 

 

_ He’s my husband. He will know all of my sooner or later. Let our foundation be built solid. _

 

“Arya did the actual thieving, I just distracted the cook.” Jon laughed. 

 

After their breakfast trays had been almost clear of food, and they sat talking of childhood scrapes and adventures, Gilly knocked quietly on the door again and indicated Sansa’s bath was ready. Sansa rose and smiled at Jon. 

 

“I shall see you on your return, your Grace.” She offered. Jon nodded. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The ride out with the deserter was quiet and solemn. Not even Aegon could make light of a mans death. Soon they had reached the clear hillside with a large blood stained tree trunk. 

 

Jon watched as his uncle stood over the man, the whimpering cowering man in black, and listened to him speak, before removing Ice from its scabbard and doing his duty. He hadn’t flinched, neither had Robb or Bran. Aegon had looked away and his father didn’t seem to actually see what was happening in front of him. 

 

As they were turning to leave Jon overheard his uncle telling Bran why he had to be the one to swing the sword. 

 

“If you cannot look a man in his eyes, and hear his final words, then perhaps he does not deserve to die.” Jon liked that idea. He hated the executions in King's Landing. The crowds cheering, the ladies acting faint, the bloodlust they inspired. This seemed clean, quieter, more respectful. 

 

“Sweet, baby brother! Tell us of your night.” Aegon pulled his horse up next to Jon and grinned. “Was Lady Sansa as sweet as she seemed?” He wasn’t talking loud enough to attract the attention of Lord Stark but Robb’s head whipped around. 

 

“I’m not telling you anything.” Jon growled. 

 

“Did you have an accident?” Aegon grinned. “Did you not know where to put it?” 

 

“I know where to put it!” 

 

“I’d appreciate it if we could stop talking about my sister in such a manner.” Robb’s voice was quiet and deadly. 

 

“I would appreciate it if we could stop talking about my wife in such a manner.” Jon echoed. 

 

“I always thought you were rather prudish Little Dragon, but maybe that’s just your Stark blood.” 

 

Robb chuckled. “Northern men know how to warm a bed, and a woman, much better than any southerner.” He grinned at Aegon before turning to Jon. 

 

“Would you like to race, my Prince?” 

 

“Please call me Jon.” 

 

“Would you like to lose a race, Jon?” Robb called, urging his horse into a gallop. 

 

“Not fair!”Jon called, racing after him. 

 

Jon managed to pull ahead of Robb just before the bridge, securing his victory. They stopped for a moment, allowing their horses a rest.

 

“Do you hear that?” Robb asked, looking around them.

 

“The stream?” 

 

“No.” Robb dismounted. ‘It’s like - like a whimper.” He made his way down the banks of the river, searching the ground. Jon followed. It didn’t take them long to find her. She was huge, about the size of Bran’s pony. Her grey fur stained with blood, her body motionless. But there was still a whimpering sound. Robb glanced at him, and they both moved closer. 

 

Blindly searching, calling, seeking warmth were five pups. 

 

“Gods!” Jon cried moving toward them. “They must be freezing.” They both swiftly bent down and huddled the pups into their arms and chests, trying to warm them. 

 

“Boys!” Came the booming voice of Eddard Stark. 

 

“Here Father!” Robb called back. Soon half the party had arrived including Eddard, Bran, Aegon, Rhaegar, and Theon. 

 

“What in Seven Hells is that?” cried the Ward of Jon’s uncle. 

 

“It’s a direwolf.” Robb responded. 

 

“There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of The Wall for two hundred years!” 

 

“Until now.” Jon’s voice was quiet as he spoke. One of the pups in his arms, the black one, made a loud squeak and attempted to leap into air, but Jon held on. 

 

“Pups.” Aegon’s voice was slightly higher than usual and he had an eyebrow raised as he stood slightly further away than the others. “They should be put out of their misery.” 

 

“Father! Please! No!” Bran cried rushing toward his brother and pulled a wolf from Robb’s arms. 

 

“Without a mother, they’ll starve and die.” Eddard said. “It’s kinder this way, son.” 

 

“There are five wolf pups, Uncle.” Jon said loudly. “One for each of your children, my lord.” Eddard glanced at Jon’s father. Rhaegar had not stopped looking at the smallest grey wolf in Jon’s arms. 

 

“Your children are meant to have them, my lord brother.” Rhaegar spoke as calmly and cooly as he always did. “A blessing from the Seven.” He turned then and began to make his way back to the horses and the rest of the party. 

 

_ The Seven hold no power here _ Jon thought.  _ A blessing from the Old Gods.  _

 

“You’ll feed them, you’ll train them, and if they die you’ll bury them.” Eddard commanded in the cool tones of Eddard the Lord. Bran yelped with excitement and began to hurry back. Jon passed Theon one of the 2 pups in his arms. He was about to follow the others when he heard another whimper; softer than the others. He made his way over to a snow drift and saw a patch of snow wriggling. Suddenly the snow looked at him with two bright red eyes. Jon scooped down and picked up the small white wolf and bundled it against his chest with the grey pup. 

 

“An odd one just for you, brother!” Aegon called from further up. Jon smiled at the small pup as it huddled next to its sister in his arm. He glanced at their mother before following his brother and cousin back to the horses. The direwolf mother had a chuck of flesh missing at her throat as if something had ripped it with sharp teeth. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Sansa! Sansa!”

 

Sansa raised her head from her embroidery to see Rickon running through the door, his grin as wide as his face. 

 

“Robb found them but Jon convinced Father to let us keep one and we’ve all got one even Jon even though he’s only part Sta-”

 

“Shhh.” She placed her hands on his shoulders to calm him. “What are you talking about?” 

 

Rickon just grinned. “Come on! You have to see, you won’t believe me.”

 

Sansa let Rickon lead her down to the kennels. If the person leading her had been Arya, Bran, or even Robb, she maybe have been suspicious of a prank, but Rickon was a sweet child. 

 

The dogs seemed uneasy as the siblings made their way to the furthest back stall. Sansa smiled as she saw Robb, Arya, Bran, and Jon sitting amongst some hay playing with puppies. 

 

Jon stood when he saw her, displacing a white puppy that had been nipping at his fingers. 

 

“My Lady.” He bowed slightly. 

 

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. 

 

“That one’s yours!” Bran exclaimed pointing to the smallest pup of all, as Rickon sat and pulled a pure black pup to him. Jon lifted the little grey one and handed it to her. 

 

“Careful, my lady” He warned “She’s very young.” Sansa took the pup, her fingers sinking into the soft fur and grasping the tiny fragile body. 

 

“They can’t be that young. Look at the size of them.” But as Sansa spoke she noticed all the pups, save one, had their eyes closed. The pure white pup which Jon played with stared around with deep red eyes. 

 

“They’re not dogs.” Arya sighed as if Sansa had missed something obvious. 

 

“They’re Direwolves.” Robb said, smiling up at her from where he sat, cross legged with a dark grey pup in his arms. 

 

“Robb and Jon found their mother.” Bran’s voice seemed to waft from the hay pile he and his pup had burrowed into. “She was dead.” Rickon hugged his pup closer to him at this. 

 

“Oh.” Sansa held her pup closer too. “They they must be hungry.” She turned and signalled to one of the hands, asking them to bring her two pitchers of warm milk and some rags. She smiled at the boy, who would’ve been Bran’s age and saw a blush spread across his checks. 

 

“And another boy falls in love with the Winter Rose.” Robb teased. 

 

“Oh shut up.” Sansa glared at him. “I’m being polite.” 

 

“Every time you’re polite another serving boy falls in love!” Arya exclaimed. “It’s gross.” 

 

Soon the boy returned and Sansa smiled her thanks, she noticed Jon glare at he boy has he took a pitcher of milk. Soon the pups were fed and beginning to fall asleep. Bran and Rickon were fetched by Maester Luwin for their lessons, whilst Robb and Arya insisted they could watch over the sleep figures. Sansa had planned a picnic after all. Jon looked a little unsure, but Sansa linked her arm through his and turned him toward the kitchens. 

 

“This way, your grace.” 

 

“I asked you to call me Jon.” He said as they left the kennels. 

 

“I asked you to call me Sansa.” 

 

“I couldn’t call you Sansa with all your siblings there!” Jon looked a little shocked. “They’d think things.” Sansa suppressed a giggle. They probably thought it odd that Jon and Sansa had used titles, their parents certainly didn’t and Arya had not used a title since the royal family arrived because ‘they’re family!’ 

 

“Then I shall only call you Jon when we are not in company.” She slipped from his arm to the kitchen door. “Your grace.” She smiled as she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, having left it with the basket. As she reached for the basket Jon’s hand gently grabbed her wrist. 

 

“Allow me, my lady.” Sansa couldn’t help but smile for a moment, before schooling her features into mock seriousness and nodding. She led him toward the Godswood. 

 

Jon was quiet as they sat under the Heart Tree. It was an imposing tree, large and white with its grim blood red face and leaves. 

 

“I’d never seen a Heart Tree before yesterday.” Jon whispered once they’d eaten most of the food. “Do they all look like this?” 

 

“Yes and no.” Sansa looked at the great tree. It was beautiful and terrifying. She could always feel the Old Gods here, unlike her mother’s Sept. She liked the faith of the Seven, it was elegant and beautiful, but in the North the Old Gods had power. “They all have faces carved into them, but Winterfell has the oldest Godswood, this Heart Tree’s face is said to carved by the First Men.” 

 

Sansa looked across at Jon. He was still staring at the tree. Red and White. Like his direwolf.  _ He is of the North, even if he was not raised her _ Sansa thought. Jon turned and looked at her, and Sansa felt her cheeks flush for no reason. She looked down and began to place plates and cutlery back into the basket. Jon’s hand reached out and stilled her own. 

 

“Tell me what else is said in the North.” He asked, still in a soft voice, as if he worried he’d disturb the Gods. “Tell me a story.” Sansa smiled.

 

“Have you heard the story of Bael the Bard and the Rose of Winterfell?” Jon shook his head. Sansa took a breath as she began the tale. 

 

“Bael was King-Beyond-The-Wall a long time ago. One day he hear that the Lord of Winterfell, Brandon Stark, had called him a coward, fearful of all Northern lords. So Bael travelled south, scaled The Wall and snuck into Winterfell under the guise of a singer. After delighting Lord Stark with performance after performance until midnight struck, Lord Stark offered Bael anything as payment. ‘ _ The most beautiful bloom in Winterfell’ _ Bael replied. As the Winter Rose was in bloom, Lord Stark ordered the most beautiful bud to be cut and gifted to Bael. Bale took the flower and seemingly left Winterfell”

 

“Seemingly?” Jon questioned, enthralled. 

 

“Shhh.” She mock scolded him. “So Bael, took the bloom and left. The next day Lord Stark’s only daughter and heir had disappeared, with only a Winter Rose left on her pillow.”

 

“Bael.” Jon smiled. Sansa nodded, smiling herself. “What happened to Bael and Lady Stark?” Jon asked, still looking at her. They’d moved closer as she’d spoken, their shoulders almost touching. 

 

“Lord Stark searched for his daughter and Bael, beyond The Wall and throughout the North, but found no trace of them. After almost a year Lady Stark emerged from the crypts of Winterfell with a babe in her arms, Bael’s son.” 

 

“She never left Winterfell?” Jon’s eyes widened. 

 

“Apparently not. Her son became Lord Stark in his turn and ruled Winterfell. He even faced his own father in battle.” 

 

“What happened?” 

 

Sansa frowned and bit her lip. She never liked this part of the story. It was sad, and stories and songs should not be sad.  _ It’s always summer in the songs _ . 

 

She looked into Jon’s steel grey eyes, prepared to offer a soothing lie or claim ignorance. But she could not lie to him. Not to a prince of the realm, not to her husband, not to Jon. 

 

“Bael would not kill his own blood and so was slain by his son. When Bael’s son returned to Winterfell with Bael’s head on a pike. It’s said Lady Stark was so overcome with grief, for she had truly loved Bael, that she threw herself from the highest tower.” 

 

“Fathers should not make their sons become kinslayers.” Jon’s face clouded briefly and Sansa realised the similarity between Bael’s son and King Rhaegar. 

 

“Sometimes abhorrent things must be done for duty, for the good of the realm.” Sansa offered. 

 

Jon looked at her. He had spent his whole life in King’s Landing and still could not entirely mask his feelings. Sansa could see the anger he felt toward his grandfather, the rage at the whispers of ‘kinslayer’ that followed his father, the hope that her words inspired. 

 

“Have you ever seen a winter rose?” She asked, attempting to lighten the subject.

 

“Only in drawings. They do not grow easily in the south.” 

 

“You should visit the glass gardens before we depart for the Last Hearth tomorrow. They are beautiful when in bloom.” 

 

“Robb called you ‘the Winter Rose’.” Jon was leaning closer to her, ever so slightly, and she mimicked his movements without really meaning to. 

 

“Aye.” She almost whispered.  _ Gods he’s close _ .

 

“Why is that?” He asked and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face and saw his eyes dart from her own to her lips and back again. 

 

“I - I don’t know.” She answered honestly, because at that moment she could not recall her own name. Jon moved closer and Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. 

 

“The daughter of Winterfell is often called the Winter Rose.” Jon and Sansa sprung apart at the sound of her Father’s voice.  “More so when the daughter is as beautiful as Sansa.” 

 

“Thank you, Father.” She answered in a whisper, her cheeks flushing red. 

 

“Eddard!” Her aunt’s voice rung out in the quiet of the wood. “You better not be interrupting anything!” Sansa blushed harder and stood, packing plates and food in to the basket. Jon looked as pale as a weirwood as he helped her. 

 

“Oh, you did interrupt!” Lyanna exclaimed appearing at her brother’s side. She slapped his arm and Sansa almost smile at the act that was so like Arya and Robb. 

 

“Come along, Sansa.” Her Father called, his arm outstretched. She felt Jon take the basket from her, so she walked to her father. She glanced behind her and saw Jon offer the same courtesy to his mother. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The crypts were cool, cooler than the Godswood had been but they were always like that. Sansa drew closer to her father. She was not afraid of the crypts. She had played too many games of ‘Come into my Castle’ and ‘Monsters and Maidens’ to be afraid. But she was disquieted by them. 

 

_ Perhaps the living should always be disquieted by the dead. _

 

She tactfully drew back when they reached the tombs of her uncle and grandfather, allowing her father, aunt, and cousin to be close. 

 

Jon also drew back and Sansa could hear the siblings in front of her murmuring. 

 

“You’re not the first Targaryen to visit our crypts.” Sansa whispered for want something to say. Jon just looked at her. 

 

“At the beginning of the Dance of the Dragons Prince Jacaerys came of Winterfell to secure the support of the North, the Pact of Ice and Fire. It is said he brought dragon eggs with him and hid then deep within the crypts, down near the hot springs, where the warmth of the earth and water would keep them safe.” 

 

She glanced at her royal companion and he was listening to her, so she continued. 

 

“Northern legends says Jacaerys married Sara Snow, Lord Cregan Stark’s bastard half sister. And that the Prince of Dragonstone loved her so much and so truly that the only gift great enough for her the dragon eggs he’d hidden in the crypts.”

 

Sansa’s eyes were locked with his as she spoke. Her whisper sounding ethereal in the coolness of the crypts.

 

“Come along young ones, we have duties to attend to before supper.” Lyanna said, startling them both out of the legends and myths of the past. The followed their parents back up and out of the crypts. As they were about to part ways Jon met Sansa’s gaze. 

 

“It seems Wolves are always tempting Dragons.” His face broke into a smile and Sansa smiled back, before they parted ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for mistakes, this work is unbeta'd. Comments and Kudos are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long time between updates! I've had some trouble with finishing my degree. I want to thank you all for the amazing support and love! I also want to apologise if Robb seems a bit OOC. I'll explain more at the end. Please forgive my mistakes, this work is unbeta'd.

Jon stood in front of his chamber mirror and frowned. He tugged at the neck of the red and black jerkin that cut a deep ‘V’ down his chest, the only thing protecting his skin a black shirt, laced closed. He never looked good in southern styles of dress. His figure felt too short, too stocky to have the ethereal, deadly grace of his father and brother. He remembered how he’d felt riding out of Winterfell that morning, wrapped in the cloak Sansa had made him. 

 

_ Strong, powerful, deadly as a wolf _ .  He looked at himself now. 

 

_ Gods I look an idiot _ . He thought. He turned and left his dressing chambers, walking down a couple of doors and knocking. 

 

“Enter.” Came the voice of his cousin. 

 

“Robb. Can I borrow a jerkin?” He asked, sticking his head in the door. 

 

Robb was sitting at a desk bent over a scroll, his hands covered in ink but his clothes for the feast were immaculate. 

 

“Sure, cousin. Help yourself.” He gestured to an open set of drawers and a wardrobe. Jon smiled his thanks and moved toward them when he heard Robb stifle a laugh. 

 

“I know,” Jon felt colour rise to his cheeks as he tried to justify his style of dress. “It’s popular in the capital.” 

 

“You’ll look a proper southron fool if you wear that with the Lords of the North.” Robb stood and moved toward a trunk at the end of his bed. He pulled out a couple of leather jerkins, some fabric ones, and some plain black and grey britches. 

 

“Take these, they’re a little small for me,” Robb smiled at this “but should fit you.” 

 

“Are you calling a Prince of the Realm short?” Jon asked, with his best mock offended voice. Robb’s eyes merely glanced down at him. They both laughed. 

 

“Thank you.” Jon said. He began to unbutton his jerkin to change into the one of the fabric ones Robb offered. He saw the scroll on Robb’s desk 

 

_ Lyra Mormont of Bear Island _

_ Arrana Umber of the Last Hearth _

_ Alys Karstark of Karhold _

_ Raya Cerwin of Castle Cerwin _

_ Argelle Flint of Widow’s Watch _

_ Wynafryd Manderly of White Harbour _

_ Meera Reed of Greywater Watch _

 

Robb noticed where Jon’s eyes had landed and snatched the parchment to his chest. 

 

“Potential betrothals?” Jon asked in a would be casual tone, examining a dark grey jerkin with a wolf embroidered across the chest. 

 

“Aye.” Robb’s voice was devoid of the humour Jon had become accustomed to hearing over the past few days. 

 

“Is that why you’re joining your sister and I on our travels around the North?” 

 

“I’m supposed to send a raven with my choice when you lot set sail from White Harbour.” 

 

“That’s over a month to choose.” 

 

“Aye, a month to choose a stranger to sit beside me and share my life!” Robb slammed the parchment with the names of ladies of the North down onto his desk, his breathing harder than usual. 

 

“You get a choice.” Jon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your sister didn’t.” 

 

Jon gathered the clothes and nodded his thanks as he left his cousin’s chambers. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jon’s appearance had caused a stir he had neither intended nor truly appreciated. Sansa had been the first to comment, being the first to see him. He was escorting her to the farewell feast and they met outside the hall. 

 

She’d stolen his breath when she turned toward him. Her hair half up in a braided bun, the rest falling in waves down her back. Her figure ever so slightly hugged in an ice blue gown with roses and wolves embroidered around the cuffs and hem, and lace lining the neckline. 

 

“Jon.” She’d gasped on seeing him. He wore his black shirt and britches underneath the grey jerkin Robb had given him. It had a direwolf running across his chest. Sansa moved toward him and her hand come up to caress the wolf. 

 

“I remember making this for Robb.” She smiled slightly. “It’s not my best work.” Her eyes lifted and met his.

 

“Robb said I could have it. He’s too tall now.” 

 

“I’ll have to make you something.” She was so close he could have counted her eyelashes. Her large blue eyes met his. “I’ve gotten much better at needlework.”  Her eyes darted to his lips and all he wanted to do was kiss her. 

 

_ Not here, not in the cold entry of her Father’s Hall when we have to sit through dinner with our family, our first kiss can’t be here. She deserves better. _

So Jon smiled and pulled away ever so slightly. 

 

“I should like that, my - Sansa” He corrected himself and almost revelled in the sound of his mistake.  _ My Sansa _ . He offered her his arm and she took it, smiling at him with a blush playing across her cheeks. They entered the hall and all eyes were on them.

 

_ They’re looking at Sansa. _ He told himself.  _ They’re looking at the newly married prince and princess.  _

 

But he heard whispers from the lords and ladies and knights in the mess. “Wolf” and “Northern” and “Stark colours” and he knows they are talking of him. He took his seat next to Aegon, helping Sansa into her seat next to him first. He glanced down the table and saw a vaguely surprised expression on his Uncle’s face and a small frown on his own father’s countenance. He glanced down at the retinue of southern lords and ladies and advisors that had accompanied them from King’s Landing. Their faces were grim, their mouths moving in quiet gossip. 

 

“Aegon.” He hissed. “What’s wrong? Why are they staring?” Aegon did not look at him, but reached for his wine as their father stood to make a toast. 

 

“What in the name of the Seven are you wearing?” Aegon hissed back through a smile. Jon glanced down at his wolf covered chest. 

 

“Robb lent it to me. I don’t look good in southern styles like you and Father.” 

 

“You can’t be this ignorant.” Aegon hissed, raising his goblet to the lords and taking a sip, Jon hurriedly mimicked him. “You truly cannot be this unaware.” 

 

“What?” Jon urged. 

 

“For fucks sake Jon. You look a proper Northerner.” 

 

“I’m half a Northerner.” Aegon sighed. 

 

“You’re not supposed to be a Northerner. You’re supposed to- for Gods sake Jon, use your head.” Aegon, turned quickly and engaged Lady Catelyn in conversation. Jon stared at the roasted carrots, venison, potatoes, and beetroot that some servant had probably placed there without him noticing. 

 

_ Aegon’s over reacting. _ He told himself as he stabbed a carrot.  _ It’s just a jerkin. _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Jon entered his and Sansa’s chambers he had not expected to find his Father standing beside the desk, the necklace Jon had gifted to Sansa in his long, fine fingers. 

 

“Shut the door, son.” Jon obeyed, but did not move further into the room. “Did she like her gifts?” 

 

“Aye.” Jon answered, acutely aware of how Northern his accent sounded. He took after his mother’s speech pattern, and his accent had deepened the few days they’d been in the North.

 

“You seemed to like yours.” Jon’s eyes travelled to where his cloak hung over an armchair. He’d loved wearing it this morning, loved the weight on his shoulders, loved the tickle of the fur, loved the warmth and the faint smell of citrus. Rhaegar placed the necklace down and moved to Jon’s cloak.

 

“Aye.” His father’s gaze was cool, unreadable. “My lady is very talented.” Jon added, trying to fill the silence.

 

“I see you have also enjoyed the generosity of your eldest cousin.” 

 

Jon felt his cheeks begin to flush. 

 

_ It’s just a jerkin. _

 

“The Southern style of dress suits you and Aegon much better than it ever suited me. Robb was kind enough to gift me what he no longer required, Father.” 

 

His father merely nodded as his fingers trailed over the Targaryen sigil Sansa had stamped into the leather of Jon’s cloak. Rhaegar moved toward the door and Jon stepped aside. His father paused as he reached the door and turned to him. Purple eyes met grey. 

 

“If you wish to honour your mother’s house by dressing in the Northern style, then you may have some clothing made. But you are not to wear the cast offs of your cousin. You are a prince of the realm. You should act like it.” And the King opened the door and left, letting in a cool breeze and leaving a bitter taste in Jon’s mouth. 

 

Jon slammed the door shut. His heart was beating fast. He wanted to shout, to scream, he wanted to hit something. He pulled the jerkin off, hearing fabric tear but not caring

 

_ Have some made. _ He thought, pacing in front of the fireplace.  _ We won't be anywhere long enough to have something made until we return to King’s Landing and the tailors there have no concept of Northern dress.  _  Jon stopped and thumped a fist against the mantel above the fireplace. 

 

_ He’s all but forbidden me. _ Jon looked up and saw himself in the mirror above the fireplace. Some of his curls had escaped his bun, his shirt was ruffled, his eyes dark. 

 

_ I look like Uncle Eddard. _ He realised. 

 

Before Jon could brood on why his father was being so obstinate about a jerkin, Sansa entered. She had a grey pup under one arm and a white pup under the other. 

 

“They need to be fed!” She looked at him, a smile on her lips and her eyes bright. Jon reached for his pup and tried not to blush as the back of his hand brushed her breast. 

 

“Shall I send for-” Jon began before Gilly entered holding rags and a pitcher of warm milk. Jon couldn’t help but smile at Sansa’s forethought. 

 

“You hungry little one?” Sansa asked her pup, moving toward the milk. Her wolf gave a small yip, as if responding. Once the wolves were fed and playing quietly, Sansa picked up the discarded jerkin Jon has thrown onto their bed. He moved toward her quickly, trying to take it from her before she noticed the damage. 

 

“I’m usually rather tidy, my apologies my lady.” But Sansa had already shaken the garment out and saw the torn fabric, from the neck halfway down the chest, all those carefully stitched embroidered details rentched apart. 

 

“What happened?” Sansa asked, turning to face him. He expected to see rage, anger, frustration. But Sansa’s face was painted with confusion, her eyes filled with pain. He took the garment from her and turned away. 

 

_ I cannot lie to her. _ He realised. 

 

“My father-” He begun. “Well,  _ I _ tore it, but by accident after my father paid me a visit.” He examined the fine stitches in his hands, and felt a pang of guilt mixed with his frustration and confusion. “He disapproved.” 

 

“Because it was Robb’s?” Her voice was soft. “Or because it was Northern?” 

 

“Both.” It was silent for a moment until Jon realised Sansa had come to stand next to him, staring at the torn fabric in his hands. Her fingers felt cool as she carefully took the garment from him. She walked toward the door and Jon wanted to call out, to reach out, to pull her back to him. 

 

Sansa opened the door and politely spoke to the guard and he saw her charming smile flash and a blush rise in the boys cheeks, and heard Robb’s voice ‘ _ And another boy falls in love with the Winter Rose’ _ . She was truly charming. 

 

Within minutes there was a tap at the door and Jon’s valet entered holding a pile of his own jerkins. Satin placed them on the table and bowed to himself and Sansa before leaving. 

 

“Which did you plan to wear tomorrow?” She asked, pulling spools of thread, needles, and scissors out of a basket. 

 

“This one?” He offered. He usually just let Satin choose. “It’s the warmest.” Sansa inspected the black wool jerkin with a critical eye. She tugged at some seams and studied the lapels. It was a nice jerkin as far the Southern style of dress appealed to Jon. Simple, mostly black, with a three headed dragon embroidered in red on each lapel. 

 

“I can work with this.” She took the garment and sat by the fire. 

 

“Sansa, it’s far too late to work on something like this.”

 

“Be helpful and bring me that candle.” She said, ignoring his objection. He watched her for a moment, her small scissors making delicate cuts through the tiny stitches of the lapels. He sighed and brought the candle to her, placing it on the table and lighting it. 

 

“Tell me a story, a southern story.” She asked, not looking up from her work. Jon sat on the floor between Sansa and the dozing pups. 

 

“Shall I tell you of a marriage that healed the realm, my lady?” He asked, staring into the fire. 

 

“Aye. I should like that.” Jon tried not to turn when the sound of tearing stitches wrenched the air. 

 

“When King Baleon the First took the throne after the death of his brother and the conquest of Dorne, he pardoned all the Dornish hostages and escorted them, himself, back to Sunspear. He is said to have walked the whole way barefoot, whilst the Dornish rode noble steeds.” Jon smiled at this detail, he wasn’t sure he believed it, but Sansa smiled at it. 

 

“Upon arrive he brokered a betrothal between his cousin Daeron and the Princess of Dorne, Mariah Martell. They were both young when the betrothal was made, but it was honoured when they came of age and they wed.” Jon realised he was staring at Sansa as he spoke, watching her nimble fingers deftly wielded her needle. Her fingers slim and long, her cheeks ever so slightly flushed, her hair falling over her shoulder in waves of fire. It took him a moment to hear her. 

 

“Jon? What happened with Daeron and Mariah?” She was smiling softly.

 

“Sorry, Umm, so Daeron and Mariah eventually got married, and their marriage helped heal the realm. After Daeron’s father died, Daeron was crowned and he worked to create peace and unity within the Seven Kingdoms. He married his sister to Prince Maron Martell and Dorne was a large support for him when the first Blackfyre rebellion happened.” Jon reached over and pet his wolf pups head. 

 

“So their marriage healed the realm for a little while.” Sansa muttered. Jon turned and saw a frown on her face. She looked worried, or perhaps frustrated. 

 

_ She never wanted this match _ . 

 

“They were said to have been extremely happy, they had four strong sons together.” Jon said his tone defensive. 

 

“And still the realm bled.” Sansa resumed her work.

 

“That wasn’t Daeron’s fault.” 

 

“Maybe his bastard brother would not have rebelled if Daeron had let Daenerys and Daemon marry.”

 

“Daeron had to do his duty and bring Dorne into the fold of the Kingdoms.” Jon’s heart was beating faster than he’d admit. He was confused by Sansa. It was as if she did not want to believe, as if she did not accept what Daeron and Mariah had done, at what their marriage could do for the realm. She smiled sadly at the cloth between her fingers. 

 

“It seems sons are always trying to fix their father’s mistakes.” Jon did not know what to say to that. So he turned back to the fire and continued to pet his wolf pups head. 

 

After a while had past, Sansa stood, placing his jerkin on her chair. 

 

“It should suit you better when you wear it on the morrow.” She moved toward the screen and quickly changed into her sleeping clothes. 

 

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” She asked and Jon could hear the almost teasing tone in her voice. 

 

“Soon. I want to watch the pups some more.” His voice was cold. His confusion and frustration at Sansa’s words chilling the warmth he was used to hearing. “Goodnight, my lady.” 

 

“Sleep well.” Her voice sounded cooler now, almost pained. “My Prince.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa awoke before Jon. She turned and could just make out the Prince’s profile in the dim light of the dawn. He’d come to bed far later than he should have with their journey planned for today. She knew she’d spoken oddly the evening before. But as words of duty and hope and healing spilled from his lips she was consumed, not with thoughts of her marriage, but with Robb’s. 

 

Her elder brother had not accepted his need to marry only in the North with the grace she had accepted her betrothal. He chafed at the collar of duty and honour that was tight upon his neck since birth. She supposed Robb had thought that being a future Lord he might get to choose a bride of his own. She watched Robb’s face fall when their father had supplied him with a list of potential wives. 

 

_ When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives _ . 

 

It was true, and not just for the Starks, but the whole of the North. She had seen the looks her mother still got, the way the Northern men eyes the Sept, even the uneasy tread of Catelyn Tully in the Godswood. The North needed to be reassured it was still had snow and ice and the blood of the First Men running through it’s veins and not being overthrown by the flame and faith of the dragons. 

 

_ Our way is the Old way. _

 

Sansa carefully drew the furs back and stood, careful not to wake her sleeping husband. She had been perturbed by his cool tones and icy demeanor last night and did not wish to face whatever winter storm raged in her husband this morning. She quietly made her way to her dressing room, wrapping a silk dressing gown around her frame, and rung the bell for Gilly, knowing that her handmaiden would have already risen and be preparing her breakfast. Sansa sat and began to comb her hair. 

 

She knew Robb would do his duty and marry some Northern maid, binding the North together tighter and stronger than ever. But she still felt a small tug of doubt. 

 

_ Daemon rebelled, when denied his one true love _ . 

 

But Robb had no one true love. And Robb was no bastard son with dreams above his station. He was the future Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and he would take a Lady wife and have lots of sons and daughters. 

 

_ He will build his marriage stone by stone, like Mother and Father.  _  Her eye caught the diamond and sapphire jewels Jon had gifted her.  _ Like I am building mine _ . She almost smiled. 

 

Gilly tapped gently on the door a few minutes later and Sansa nibbled at her breakfast whilst Gilly did her hair in a simple Northern style. 

 

“Are you excited to be travelling, Gilly?” Sansa asked taking a bite of her toast. 

 

“Yes, milady. I mean, your grace.” Gilly flushed slightly and furrowed her brow as she braided. 

 

“My lady is fine, Gilly. It’s what you’ve always called me.” Gilly just nodded, and carefully pinned a braid into place. 

 

“All done, milady. Shall I assist you to dress?” 

 

“Just with my underthings thank you, Gilly. The gown is simple enough, I can manage that on my own.” Sansa stood and moved toward the thick woolen gown she had chosen for her day of travel. She tried not to squirm as Gilly pulled the laces of her corset tight, but not too tight as she would spend most of the day in a carriage. She smiled at her handmaiden as Gilly gathered the breakfast things and left. 

 

Sansa reached and pulled the gown over her head, careful not to mess the delicate work of Gilly. She laced the gown closed, and sat, lacing her riding boots. Her gown was a proper riding gown, incase Jon or Robb asked her to ride. She was not particularly fond of the exercise, finding her mind wandered too far and too frequent to enjoy the sport as Arya did. 

 

The deep blue of the wool was longer on one side, with a hook and eye that would gather it up so she could walk and sit with ease, but could lower to preserve her modesty as she rode side-saddle. Arya had said she should wear britches and ride astride as that was much more comfortable, but Sansa was a lady, and ladies rode side-saddle. 

 

Sansa checked her appearance one last time before heading out into the courtyard. The whole household of Winterfell had come out to see Robb, Jon, and herself. She did her duty as lady to them all. She shook hands and thanked people, she wished women well for their babes, and bid the men to be brave and honourable in their duty. She kissed the Cook’s cheeks and mourned the loss of her lemon cakes. She smiled at the stable boys, and hugged Septa Mordane, who promptly scolded her for unladylike behaviour even though tears ran down the older woman’s face. 

 

Soon she had come to her family. Rickon and Bran hugged her tightly and she breathed in their smell of snow, and leather, and pine. 

 

_ The smell of Winterfell. The smell of home. _

 

She hesitated for a moment when she reached Arya, wanting to hug her and tell her the she was proud of her, proud of Arya’s strength, of her will, of her stubbornness. Arya pulled her into a bone crunching hug and Sansa felt a chuckle escape her. 

 

“Write me about the training the Mormont women do.” Arya insisted with a whisper that only Sansa could hear. 

 

_ You are as different as the Sun and Moon, but the same blood runs through your veins.  _

 

“Of course.” Sansa reassured. She was about to embrace her mother, who had silent tears streaming down her face, when Sansa realised the whole yard was staring at the stairs of the guest wing. The royal family had joined them to say goodbye. 

 

Lyanna still had the look of a Northern maid, but was wrapped in the silks and furs of the South. Her dress flowing and loose, rather than the simply cut, tight bodice common in Northern gowns. Rhaegar and Aegon wore richly embroidered jerkins under the dyed red wool of their cloaks. But people weren’t staring at the King, Queen, and prince. They were staring Jon, and Sansa could not help the smile that came to her face as her husband descended the stairs. Her alterations had not been difficult but the result was pleasing. She’d removed and readjusted the lapels so they met down his chest. The embroidered red dragons faced each other, meeting at his throat, mirroring the silver direwolf clasp at her throat. 

 

She heard an intake of breath next to her. She turned and her father’s face was solemn, icy, his ‘Lord Eddard’ face. Her mother’s eyes were flickering between Jon and Eddard, her hand grasping the  neck of her gown. She felt a touch at her elbow and turned to Jon, who was now standing beside her. 

 

“Are you ready, my lady?” He asked, the ice from the night before had melted from his voice. 

 

“Almost.” And she smiled at him. Robb’s voice came to mind ‘ _ And another boy falls in love with the Winter Rose’. _

 

For the first time since Robb had started teasing her, she hoped it was true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Robb. I wanted to try and get at Robb's penchant for passion and how he knows he needs to marry for duty, but he kind of rails against it, how he gives into his lust for Jeyne Westerling despite knowing he had a duty. Sorry if it seemed a bit odd. Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much! Your comments and kudos really kept me going when writing this chapter. Someone mentioned that a month seemed to be a bit short for a tour of the North, given the vastness of the North. Completely valid! The North if freaking huge, and I am taking some creative liberties with distance/time. They are also not visiting every castle in the North, or it would be like a year before Jon and Sansa got back to Kings Landing. They are visiting some major castles before sailing from White Harbour.

 

Sansa resisted the urge to yawn. People around her laughed and sung and drank and Sansa’s thought lay with the feather bed and pile of furs in her and Jon’s chambers. Lord and Lady Umber had offered herself and Jon their chambers and had been refused, as was expected, but the suite provided was large enough, with a blazing fire and copious blankets. Sansa pulled her thoughts away from the lure of her first feather bed in days, straightened her spine and shook her head slightly. She turned to Jon. He was conversing with Lord Umber fluently. Greatjon had been hesitant toward the dragon prince, but his demeanor had thawed at Jon’s Northern accent, Northern appearance, and Northern dress and positively warmed when Jon expressed an interest in the Umber’s house history. 

 

“Of course, we’re said to be descended from giants!” Lord Umber was explaining a little too loudly, his cheeks flushed with ale. Jon was nodding politely and Sansa smiled  to herself before scanning the floor below the dias for her brother. 

 

At that moment he swung Arrana Umber gracefully around the dancefloor. Neither looked pleased. Sansa had, personally, not had much hope that Robb would choose either Lady Umber or Lady Mormont. Arrana’s named had been coupled with Brandon Tallhart’s and Lyra Mormont was said to be as wild as her mother. From Sansa’s spot on the dias she could see the young Mormont woman laughing as a young man attempted to drink an entire flagon of ale in one go. 

 

Her eyes returned to Robb and Arrana. Robb was nodding at what she was saying and smiling politely, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He leant forward and spoke into Arrana’s ear but did not linger in her closeness as their Father did when dancing with their Mother. 

 

“Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, my lady?” Jon’s soft deep voice broke into her thoughts. 

 

He’d been extremely courteous throughout the journey to Last Hearth. Sansa had attributed this to Robb’s presence and Jon’s discomfort with displaying familiarity around her family. But even in private, even in their suite of rooms here, he still had not called her ‘Sansa’. She had never hated two words more than she hated ‘my lady’ falling from his lips. 

 

“If you wish, my Prince.” She replied, slipping her hand into his. 

 

_ I wonder if my courtesies cut you as yours cut me?  _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jon attempted to look regal as he all but stumbled through the dance. He’d seen Sansa staring at the dancers and her brother and had heard Aegon’s voice  _ ‘All ladies love to dance, Little Dragon, they can  _ _ feel _ _ a man without dishonour. And if you’re lucky you can get a feel of them too.’ _ He did not believe his brother, but he knew from Robb that Sansa liked to dance. No one, save Lord Umber and Robb, had asked Sansa to dance despite her beauty and her gentle smile. Jon was not sure why. At royal balls his sister and his aunt never lacked a partner, sometimes his sister would even feign illness or sore toes to avoid dancing. So Jon asked Sansa to dance. For a moment it seem like she might smile, might gift him that enchanting smile that had stolen every heart in Winterfell. But she had not. She had called him a prince and took his hand and now she was looking over his shoulder and trying to guide him through a dance he did not know. 

 

“I apologise for my clumsy footing.” He murmured into her ear, lingering in her scent and warmth. He could have sworn he heard her inhale sharply as his lips almost brushed her skin. 

 

“You have no need to apologise. You have yet to crush my toes.” She replied, her voice almost breathy. 

 

“We do not dance like this in the south.” The dance was a combination of wide swinging movements and tight embraces, quite different to the pageantry of the royal court where every dance was designed to display both dress and couple for the court to see. 

 

“How do you dance at court?” Sansa asked, leaning close to him. He leaned to her, wanted to hear her voice and reluctant to cede the closeness both the dance and the conversation afforded them. He felt Sansa’s hand tug him gently about the floor and enjoyed the soft wool of her gown as his hand rested on her lower back. 

 

“Not like this. A couple barely touch, and there is a lot of twirling and twisting and walking about.” Sansa chuckled and Jon could feel her breath. 

 

“That hardly sounds like dancing.” 

 

“I prefer the Northern type of dancing.” Jon said, having decided on this the moment he got to hold Sansa in his arms. 

 

“Even if you do not know the steps?” She asked lightly. 

 

“My clever wife shall teach them to me in time.” He replied. He felt her pull away and he looked into those startlingly blue eyes. They were the colour of a summer sky and the purest sapphires and a deep sea, a sea so lovely he’d gladly drown. “If she would be so kind?” He asked.

 

“She would be so kind.” And Sansa smiled at him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Their bedroom was wonderfully warm when Jon entered. He looked about, but Sansa was not present, so he made his way over to the hearth. All three direwolves were housed in the kennels, getting every attention the Umber’s could lavish upon them. Jon sat on the rug, pulling a blanket from the bed around his shoulder as he waited for Sansa. 

 

She had named her wolf.  _ Lady _ he thought, almost chuckling aloud,  _ She named one of the fiercest beasts alive, Lady _ . But the wolf was a lady even as a pup. Robb had named his Grey Wind, but Jon was yet to name his wolf. He’d thought of names, Vermithor and Shrykos after the dragons of his namesakes, but they did not feel right. 

 

_ You cannot name a Wolf for a Dragon _ . He thought, staring into the flames of the hearth fire. 

 

“Jon?” He started ever so slightly at his name and turned to see Sansa standing near the door to her dressing room. She was wearing the same nightgown she had worn on their wedding night. It was a lovely thing, light and floaty with winter roses. It clung to her hips ever so slightly and dipped well below her collarbone. She looked like a goddess. 

 

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked, realising that he’d been staring at her. She was dressed only in her nightgown, her feet bare, her hair loose, with no dressing gown or fur to warm her. She chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed near him.

 

“This room is swelteringly hot.” Her fingers tugged at one of the fur blankets on the foot of the bed. “I don’t think I shall even need blankets to sleep tonight.”

 

“It’s freezing here!” Jon said, turning to face her and allowing the flames to warm his back. “How can you not be cold?” 

 

“I’m a Northern lady, ice and snow runs in my veins.” She smiled a knowing smile. 

 

“You shall boil in the south.” He replied, a smile just as knowing on his face. 

 

“Then you shall have to teach me how to keep cool.” 

 

“Swimming is the best way I’ve found. Do you know how to swim?” 

 

“Oh, I love swimming.” Sansa’s toes curled into the rug as her face lit up with excitement. “We used to swim in the hot springs in the Godswood.” 

 

“I imagine they are the only place warm enough.” Jon replied, moving closer to her. Sansa slid off the edge of the bed until she sat in front of him.

 

“Robb and Theon used to dare each other to swim in the stream that ran outside Winterfell.”

 

“The one that freezes over with ice?” Jon raised an eyebrow.

 

“Aye, that one. A test of bravery and endurance they used to say. They’d push and shove and provoke each other, neither taking the plunge until Arya ran past them both and jumped in, fully clothed.” Jon let out a bark of laughter. “She trudged out, teeth chattering, called them both babies and ran to the Godswood to jump in the hot spring.” Jon laughed and Sansa joined him. She stretched her legs out and lent against the bed, her feet almost touching his shins as he sat cross legged. Jon noticed how her skin shone in the firelight. “Did your family do anything like that?” She asked. 

 

“Rhaenys, Aegon, and I would try and hold our hands over flames, trying to prove we were real dragons.” He looked at Sansa’s shocked face. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.” He said as if it explained everything.

 

“But... didn't it hurt?” She asked, her face aghast. Jon nodded.

 

“But to prove we were a real dragon, maybe even the Prince that was Promised from of the prophecy Father was so enchanted by? That would have been worth a thousand burns.” Jon couldn’t help but smile at the memory of his siblings determined faces as they tried to hold their open palms close over a candle, smiled at the sense of disenchantment but comradery their failure had inspired, smiled at Aegon’s almost annoyed expression and Rhaenys shrugging it off even though Jon knew they were all disappointed. 

 

“Who’s the Prince that was Promised?” Sansa asked, her eyelids weighing heavily on her lovely eyes.

 

“A story.” Jon said softly, rising to his feet. “Just a story.” He held his hand out to her. “Let’s go to bed.” 

 

Sansa placed her hand in his and rose. Soon they were in bed and Jon could have sworn Sansa’s breath had become slow and even with sleep, but she shifted, moving close to him, lifting his arm so she could rest her head on his shoulder and his hand came to her waist. 

 

“Tell me the story soon.” She murmured sleepily. “The story of the Prince that was Promised.” 

 

“I will.” Jon replied, enjoying the weight of her hand on his chest. 

 

“Promise?” She asked, her voice already fading into sleep. 

 

“Promise.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sansa tried to roll away from the warmth that was stifling her sleep. She knew she must soon awaken, dress, and break her fast with the Umber’s and the Mormont’s, but she clung to these last few moments of rest even if she felt as if she was sleeping in a Dornish desert. 

 

As she tried to move she felt an arm tighten around her waist, holding her still. 

 

_ Jon _

 

She carefully, slowly, rolled until she was facing her sleeping husband. He looked different when he slept, less worried, less brooding, less burdened. His features seemed softer.

 

Without thinking, Sansa raised a hand and gently cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. He stirred and awoke, but Sansa did not shrink from her contact, she merely smiled softly at him. 

 

It seemed to take Jon a moment a fully awaken and comprehend their position. When he did, he smiled softly at her, gently raising his own hand to rest over hers. 

 

“Good morning.” She whispered, as if speaking in her normal tone or volume could shatter whatever was making her feel this bold. 

 

“Good morning, Sansa.” He whispered back. She almost shivered at the use of her name. 

 

_ Not my lady, not Princess, not your grace. Sansa.  _

 

Her name had never sounded so sweet than when it fell from his lips. 

 

They were close, their bodies entwined. One of Jon’s arms was acting as a pillow for Sansa’s head, whilst the other now cupped her hand. Sansa leg had somehow become wound around Jon’s and one hand was resting on his chest. She could see the smattering of dark hair below his shirt collar and could almost feel the beating of his heart. 

 

She gently, slowly, leaned toward him. He seemed to mimic her movements without conscious thought.  Her nose brushed lightly against his and she could feel his breath on her face. Her eyes fluttered closed as she anticipated his lips meeting hers. 

 

It was slow and gentle and incredibly sweet. His lips soft and smooth against her own. His lips pressed against her own and she responded. She felt his hand leave hers  on his cheek and trail down to her waist, where it had rested before, pulling her slightly closer to him. She almost gasped when she felt his tongue brush her lower lip, but enjoyed the light nip of his teeth. She copied the movement moments later and was rewarded with a squeeze to her waist and his embrace tightening ever so slightly. 

 

Her hand slipped around and tangled in his loose dark curls. She could feel her lips becoming ever so slightly swollen, a flush of warmth rolling over her body, an almost burning heat where Jon’s hand held on to her waist through her thin nightgown. Part of her wanted to grab his hand and move it, she wasn’t sure where just somewhere, anywhere, but she just pressed herself against him. 

 

There was a gentle knock at the door and suddenly Sansa lay alone in their bed, whilst Jon stood halfway across the room, leaning against the mantelpiece. 

 

“Come in.” He called and his voice seemed strangely husky, even for the morning. 

 

Gilly opened the door and glanced from Jon to Sansa. “Your hot water is ready for you, my lady, and I’ve laid out your clothes and things in your dressing room.” 

 

“Thank you Gilly, I’ll be there in a moment.” Sansa said, sitting up in bed and holding a blanket about her. Gilly curtseyed and left, shutting the door. 

 

The chamber was still. Sansa could see Jon’s back move as he breathed. Suddenly he turned, bowed stiffly to her and walked toward the door to his dressing room. He pulled the door opened but paused on the threshold. He turned back to her and their eyes met. 

 

_ He has lovely eyes _ . She thought. 

 

“Your grace.” he nodded and shut the door behind him. Sansa let out a sigh and flopped back onto the bed. 

 

_ He probably thinks I’m some wanton Northern wildling. _ She suppressed a groan and rose to face the day. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jon ducked the blow aimed at his head and swept his blunted sword behind the squire’s knees, knocking him to the ground.

 

“I yield!” the boy called from the ground. Jon sighed and reached a hand down to help the boy to his feet. 

 

“You fought well.” Jon said a tight smile crossing his face. The boy bowed and headed off toward the main buildings. Jon turned to see if anyone else was willing to spar with him, but found all the other boys and men to be busy or distracted. He couldn’t blame them. He’d skipped breakfast and had been demanding sparring partner after sparring partner for the last hour at least, beating every opponent that dare come his way. 

 

Sighing he headed toward the armoury to pack away his gear when he heard a voice call him. He spun and saw Robb walking across the yard, Arrana Umber on one arm and Sansa on the other. 

 

“I’ll spar with you!” He called. “If my ladies permit?” Sansa rolled her eyes and removed herself from Robb’s arm before linking arms with Arrana.

 

“We shall be the judges of the best form and talent, not just who yields.” She smiled at Arrana, who returned the smile. Sansa turned to face him, but Jon looked away. He feared what he might find in her steady gaze. 

 

_ Disgust, hatred, fear? Gods behaved abominably this morning. _

 

Instead he swung his sword aimlessly whilst Robb was readied for their sparring match. 

 

“Don’t fear, Sansa!” Robb called, walking toward Jon. Jon watched Robb’s movement, his stride, his dominant hand, the turn of his shoulders. 

 

_ Right handed. Good at defence. Quick on his feet.  _

 

“I won't mess up your husband’s pretty face.” Robb smirked at him. 

 

“You think I’m pretty?” Jon asked with a smile and Robb threw his head back and laughed. 

 

“Aye, pretty and rather nimble. Just like my little sister, Arya.” Jon knew Robb was needling him, trying to find a weak point Jon’s emotional armour. 

 

_ The mind of your opponent is just as much a target as their body _ . He heard his Master at Arms whisper in his head.  _ Get them riled up and emotional, and you’ve all but won. _

 

It seemed Robb was taught the same lesson. 

 

“She’s a fierce little wolf.” Jon called back, they were circling each other. Jon always relished this moment, just before the fighting began. It was energetic, like the sky before lightening. Each man tense and coiled, waiting for the right moment to strike. “I’d fight you over her anyday.” 

 

“Not enough that my one of my sisters has you wrapped around her little finger, you’re frightened of the other?” Jon almost gritted his teeth at Robb’s jest. 

 

“My wife has assured me I could beat you in the sparring yard.” Jon replied, his voice low and confident. That did it. There was a split second when Robb’s heart skipped a beat, where he worried Sansa did not believe in him, where he worried his family did not believe in him, where he worried he was not enough, distracted in his thoughts. That’s when Jon struck. 

 

He brought his sword up at an angle, knowing that reflex alone would block the blow, but it allowed Jon to build momentum for a second, third, fourth strike. He was unrelenting in his movement, blow after blow landing on Robb’s shield, surely making that arm numb, as they moved around the space. 

 

A fraction of a second after Jon landed another blow on Robb’s shield, Jon was forced to retreat a step or two as Robb’s sword arched, barely missing Jon’s stomach. The men circled each other again, each panting with effort, neither bothering to taunt the other now. 

 

Robb lunged first and Jon block him, swinging his sword around and just catching Robb’s shoulder. Robb swung his shield arm and rammed into Jon’s side, causing the prince to stumble, but Jon maintained his footing. Robb raised his sword and the two men exchanged blows swiftly, each deftly hitting and blocking the other, until a scream broke their concentration.

 

“No!” It was Sansa. Robb did not seem bothered, perhaps because he knew his sister, knew the sound of her playful shouts and screams since they were children, but Jon didn’t know. He did not know this was the voice that shouted when Arya threw muddy snow at her, or Bran jumped from the rafters and scared her, or when Robb tricked her into dancing with Theon all evening. So he spun, to face her, so see her. She was facing Arrana Umber and Lyra Mormont, the latter having thrown a handful of snow down the back of Sansa’s cloak. 

 

Jon was staring at Sansa, panic pulsing in his veins, so he did not see or block the blow Robb dealt him. It was pure instinct on Robb’s part, he was trained to ignore the sounds of siblings, knowing they were likely taunting him, but still his blunted sword landed true with an oddly satisfying  _ thwack _ against the Prince’s head. Jon felt to his knees.

 

“Jon!” It was Sansa again. But he could hear her fear this time. He looked up and saw his wife, his lady-like, proper, beautiful wife jumping the fence of the sparing yard and rushing toward him. 

 

“Oh Robb! You idiot!” She scolded as she knelt before Jon, her hand coming up to cup his face and tilt his cheek so she could see where the blow landed. “Didn’t Ser Rodrick ever teach you it’s not honourable to strike when your opponent’s back is turned?” Jon was staring at her. She was fuzzy around the edges, her hair seeming to glow almost like a halo, her big blue eyes staring into his with concern and care. 

 

_ You shouldn’t care. _ He thought, pulling his face from her hands  _ You should hate me.  _

 

“I’m fine.” He used his sword to help him stand and tried not to sway on his feet. 

 

“You should let the Maester see you.” Sansa said, moving toward him, trying to pry the sword from his hand and lead him back to the keep. “You’ve a nasty cut and a bruise already forming.”  He jerked from her grasp, from her kindness.

 

_ I do not deserve your care _ . 

 

“I said I’m fine!” Sansa flinched from his harsh tone, and Jon’s heart ached. 

 

_ No. No! Hate me, but do not fear me. Never fear me. _

 

He could almost see the wall of ice go up between them. Sansa curtsied.

 

“If it please you, your grace.” She started to turn, to leave, and Jon could not bear that. He reached out to grab her. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her, to tell her she was sweet and kind and he knew she did not choose him, but he would do all he could to make her want to choose him. 

 

“Sansa- San.” The world was spinning, he really wished it would stop spinning and tilting. He was trying to talk to his wife, to Sansa. “Sansa-” He called and he could see those beautifully blue oceans staring at him and he felt as if he was falling and drowning and flying all at once. 

 

“Sansa.” He gasped, as he fell.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jon was laid out on their bed. His cut stitched, his bruise blooming, his eyes still shut.

 

“Tis merely from the loss of blood, your grace.” The maester had assured her has his wrinkled and gnarled hands stitched his scalp closed. “He shall sleep a few hours and awaken himself, I am quite certain.” He’d smiled at her and patted her hand as he departed their chamber. She’d sent word that she would not be joining the farewell feast and requested food be brought to her and Jon’s chambers. 

 

She sat next to the bed and watched him. She’d removed his boots and wrapped him in furs and now she waited. She watched as he would twitch with dreams, as his chest rose and fell, she watched. It was only when she allowed the servants to enter and lay supper did she realise how late it had gotten. She turned back to the bed after shutting the door behind the retreating servants. 

 

Jon’s voice rung clear in her mind  _ ‘It’s freezing here!’ _ so she stoked the fire before sitting on the bed next to him. She reached out to touch his cheek, to feel his temperature. He was warm, but he seemed to be always warm. She let her hand drop to his neck and looped a lock of dark hair around her finger, twirling it ever so slowly. 

 

_ Do you know that I want you? _ She wondered, her eyes trailing over his full lips.  _ Do you know I want to know you in every way one person can know another?  _

 

She started when his hand shot up out of the blankets and grabbed her wrist. 

 

“It tickles.” He said, his speech slow, his voice deep. She almost gasped. 

 

“I’m sorry, my sweet.” She whispered. Jon opened his eyes and offered her a lazy smile. 

 

“You are too sweet to me, my wife.” Sansa chuckled but felt a blush come upon her cheeks. “I’m sorry for my harsh words.” 

 

“Shh.” She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek, smiling at him. “You were injured and not yourself.” 

 

“But you flinched. I would not have you fear me, you may hate me, loathe me, despise me. But not fear me.” He pouted, almost like a child and Sansa could not help but chuckle again. 

 

“I could never fear you, Jon.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Sighing slightly, she stood. “Are you hungry?” She asked, moving toward the food. 

 

“Aye.” Jon replied, throwing the blankets off him and moving to stand. 

 

“Oh no you don’t.” Sansa scolded, bringing a plate of food and placing it on the side table next to Jon. “The Maester said you must rest until tomorrow.” She put her hands on her hips and suddenly felt like her mother scolding Arya or Robb to remain in their sick bed. 

 

“I can rest  _ and _ eat with you.” Jon complained. 

 

“You can eat in bed.” 

 

“Will you join me?” He asked, looking at her from under eyelash so long and thick any maid would trade her soul to the Seven for them. Without thinking too much about it, Sansa cupped his face in her hands, leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

 

“If it please you, husband.” Before he had time to react, she was back at the table laden with food, preparing her own plate. 

 

“Have you seen Lady today?” He asked, sitting back against the soft cushions. 

 

“I saw both Lady and your pup after breaking my fast with Arrana and Lyra.” Sansa sat on the bed, setting her plate aside to fuss with Jon’s blankets, before positioning herself comfortably. 

 

“How are they?” Jon asked around a mouth full of deliciously roasted venison. 

 

“They seem very contented. They’re grown so much! And in such a short time.” She picked at a roasted carrot. “I wonder how tall they shall be fully grown.” 

 

“Mother said the old tales talk of the Kings of Winter riding direwolves into battle.” 

 

“Oh, I don’t know if I could ride Lady like a horse.” Sansa shook her head slightly. “She’s too noble, too clever to treat as a beast of burden.” 

 

“So what is to be Lady’s purpose, if not to strike fear into the hearts of those who would oppose you?” Jon teased, a smile on his lips. 

 

“She shall always walk beside me, and be a companion through all, and protect me against any who would do me harm.” Sansa replied, images of her beautiful wolf always within reach. 

 

“I thought that was my job.” Jon said in a quiet tone. Sansa looked at him. He had the trace of a smile on his face, so she could have easily brushed it aside as a joke, but the look in his eye told her he was in earnest. He saw himself as her companion, her partner, her protector. 

 

“She’s there for me when you cannot be. You have Princely duties to attend to.” And Jon chuckled, with his eyes smiling in relief. She would not deny him the role he desired. The role, if she was honest, she desired him to fulfill. “And what of  _ your _ wolf? Shall you ride him into battle and be the dragon who mounted a wolf?” 

 

She blushed as soon as the words left her lips, realising the double meaning they could have. She remembered half heard conversations between serving girls and high born ladies of men and husbands mounting their ladies and getting them with child. Jon’s cheeks seemed to flush ever so slightly.

 

“No.” Jon stared at his plate of half eaten food. “He shall be my friend and a reminder that I am both a dragon and a direwolf.” 

 

“Hopefully he shall grow so large no one could ever question your ties to the North.” Jon looked at her now and she smiled comfortingly at him. “You do have Northern blood in your veins.” She set aside her plate and stood, walking to the chest of clothes near the window. “And Northern dress to warm yourself.” She pulled out the three latest jerkins and shirts she had made for him. They had not taken her long, being mainly plain sewing, but she had sewn every stitch herself. She remembered her mother making clothes for her father, her Mother’s love and care woven into the fabric and secured with every stitch, every thread. 

 

She placed them on the end of the bed and Jon stood to see them better. He looked at the clothes with a look akin to awe. His hand reached out and ran over the only leather jerkin in the pile. It was of a black leather with a diamond pattern embossed on it, like the one her father wore. She had made two other fabric jerkins, one in a deep blood red and the other in a steel grey. 

 

“They’re beautiful.” He whispered. “Who made them for you?” He glanced at her and Sansa felt a slight sting at his words. 

 

“I made them.” Her own fingers reached out and traced the diamond pattern she had so carefully worked on. “I made them for you.” Jon’s fingers brushed hers and he grasped her hand.

 

“Thank you, Sansa.” He was looking into her eyes now and Sansa felt as if she could disappear in those grey depth. “I truly - they are- you’re amazing.” He stammered. Sansa could not help the smile that spread across her face. Jon turned his body toward her and with a wincing delicacy placed one hand on her cheek whilst the other hovered around her waist. “Thank you, wife.” He kissed her. Softly and gently, and so very sweetly. His hand warm, his taste of wine and salt and smoke. Sansa could not stop her arms as they wound their way around his neck. She relished the feel of his hand on her waist and the feel of his palm as his hand moved from her cheek to her hair. She pulled him closer, arching her body to his, not caring if he thought her wanton or shameless, as long as he did not stop kissing her.

 

And he didn’t. He flicked his tongue across her lower lip and caught her upper lip between his teeth, nipping ever so slightly. His hand moved from her hair to join his over around her waist and he squeezed her tightly to him. She moaned at this, pulling away in embarrassment, but his mouth chased hers, kissing the corner of her lips, her cheek, her jaw, her neck and she moaned again. Her fingers got lost in his curls and she pulled his mouth from that wonderful spot he’d found below her ear, back to her lips where she flicked her tongue and nibbled at his lower lip and she revelled in the moan she drew from him. He pulled her toward the bed ever so slightly, dropping so he sat, and she stood between his legs. He continued to kiss her, to run his warm hands over her back, her waist, until one hand traced down her thigh, hooked behind her knee and pulled her forward so she straddled his hips. 

 

“Jon.” She murmured as his lips kissed that spot below her ear. He hummed to show he was listening. “I don’t want to-” He pulled away and looked at her, something like horror in his eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry.” He blurted, trying to move without touching her, which proved to be quite a task as she was sitting in his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. “I should not have-” She kissed him and he froze for a moment, before kissing her back, his hands resuming their roaming over her back. She kissed his cheek, his jaw before gently capturing his earlobe between her teeth.

 

“I don’t want to make love tonight.” She whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

 

“Then we shan’t.” He replied, trying to capture her lips again. She directed him to kiss the column of her neck and he did so gladly. 

 

“But I want to be kissed by you.” Her fingers tangled in his hair.

 

“Then you shall be.” He gently suckled on the flesh just above her collar bone.

 

“And I want to be held by you.” She arched into his touch as he moved back up to the spot below her ear. 

 

“Then you shall be.” He tugged her earlobe gently with his teeth. 

 

“And I want-” She didn’t finish her sentence because her lips found his and she was kissing him. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jon traced nonsense patterns across Sansa’s back as her head rested on his shoulder. They had been interrupted soon by the Maester coming to check on Jon’s cut. Gilly had arrived soon after to help Sansa bathe, and Satin had called on him not long after. 

 

Now they were ensconced in furs in their bed, Sansa curled up next to Jon, his arm draped around her, hers across his chest. He’d started by playing with her hair, but soon felt the draw of her skin, even if it was covered by a thin layer of fine white fabric. 

 

“Will you tell me that story?” Sansa asked, her hand moving to play with the laces at the collar of his nightshirt.

 

“Which story?” 

 

“The Prince that was Promised.” He sighed. “You do not need to if you would prefer not to. I can tell you a story.” Sansa offered. 

 

“I promised.” Jon said, as Sansa glanced up to his face. He offered her a small smile which must have reassured her. “The Prince that was Promised it truly the tale of Azor Ahai.” He began. Sansa nuzzled into his chest and pulled the furs right up to her chin, settling in for the story. Jon couldn’t help the small smile that came to his lips.

 

_ She’s so sweet. _

 

“Azor Ahai lived thousands upon thousands of years ago. The age of Darkness was at it’s height, the lands swallowed in an endless night. Azor Ahai was chosen to be a hero, to fight the darkness and bring the world light. In order to do battle, he needed a hero’s sword. So he laboured for thirty days and thirty nights crafting a beautiful, strong sword. But when he went to temper his work in mere water, the sword shattered.” Sansa let out a little gasp and Jon smiled to himself. “So he began again. He worked on his new sword for fifty days and fifty nights. To temper this sword he captured a lion and plunged the glowing blade into the beast’s still beating heart-”

 

“Oh the poor lion!” Sansa exclaimed. Jon rubbed her shoulder but continued. 

 

“The blade still shattered. Azor Ahai began work on a new blade. The final blade, for he knew now what he must do. He worked for one hundred days and one hundred nights and when the blade was ready for its final tempering he called his wife Nissa Nissa.” He felt Sansa tense beneath his hands. “He asked her to bare her chest. She did, for she was a good and noble woman. He plunged the blade into her chest, through her still beating heart and her blood and soul combined with the red hot blade. It still glowed red, even though Nissa Nissa’s sacrifice had tempered the blade. It became known as Lightbringer, the Red Sword of heros. Azor Ahai defeated the darkness with it, saving the world and bringing back light and warmth.” 

 

Sansa sat up and faced him. He could see tears forming in her eyes. 

 

“That’s so sad.” Sansa whispered. Jon cupped her cheek. 

 

“He saved the world.” 

 

“And lost his heart.” She blinked and single tear ran down her cheek. Jon wiped it away with his thumb. “That was not the story of the Prince that was Promised.” Sansa said, her tone more normal, more teasing. She lay back down, her head nestling into his shoulder.

 

“The Prince that was Promised is a prophecy about the rebirth of Azor Ahai.” Jon began tracing patterns on Sansa’s back again. “Born beneath a bleeding star, amidst smoke and salt.” He quoted from memory. 

 

“And the Prince would defeat the darkness?” Sansa asked.

 

“Aye. He would find and wield Lightbringer and save the whole world.”

 

“I can see why you wanted to the Prince.” Sansa began tracing patterns on his chest and they passed a few moments in silence. Jon could feel himself drifting off into sleep when Sansa spoke again.“But would that mean you would have to temper Lightbringer by plunging it into the still beating heart of you love?” 

 

“You’re safe, love.” He muttered, his eyes closed, his mind already dreaming of little children with red hair that would sit on his knee as he told them of Azor Ahai. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have an update next week. I've already started that chapter and it's looking pretty good. As usual, this is unbeta'd please forgive my mistakes.   
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated and continue to inspire me!


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